When he looked down at his hands, they were not his hands — long, rough, and scarred, with calluses thick as bark. His arms were huge, heavy with muscle. The dirt beneath his nails wasn't from office work.
He knew then.
He was Ser Duncan the Tall.
The name rose from memory like a ghost. Dunk, the hedge knight.
The first of the tales he'd read in his old life — The Hedge Knight, The Sworn Sword, The Mystery Knight.
A long shiver ran through him. "Bloody hell," he murmured. "I'm in Westeros."
The realization was both relief and horror, relief because he can start again.
And horror because his in Westeros, world and character are specifically designed by GRRM so it don't allow any Plot armor.
He turned his head slowly. Not far from where he sat lay an old man wrapped in a cloak, stiff and still beneath the elm. His thin white hair stirred in the wind. The face was hollow, the mouth slack.
"Ser Arlan," Dunk whispered.
The old knight had died in the night. He remembered it — fever, coughing, the rattle in his chest. The memory wasn't his, but Dunk felt the weight of it all the same.
He pushed himself to his feet. The air was cool, and the world seemed too quiet. Insects buzzed around the body. Dunk knelt beside the corpse.
He remembered reading how Dunk buried Ser Arlan beneath a tree before going to Ashford Meadow. Now he was living it. There was no one else to do it.
Dunk looked around until his eyes fell on the horse grazing nearby — a big, chestnut destrier with kind eyes.
Thunder, Ser Arlan's horse. Beside it lay their gear, a dented kettle helm, chainmail patched with rust, a lance with splintered wood, a sword whose edge had seen too many fights.
He needed a shovel. He found one tied to the saddle and reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the handle, a faint chime rang in his head.
[Shovel (Iron).]
Sell this item for 2 Copper Stags?
[Yes] [No]
Dunk froze. "The hell…?"
He blinked hard. The screen didn't vanish. His heart hammered. He remembered this from games, and flop web novels which tried to copy solo leveling.
But seeing it here, floating in the air of Westeros, felt unreal, 'GRRM going to kill whoever fucker wrote this shit'
Instead of choosing YES or NO he touched home page symbol at upper corner.
Suddenly, a new screen opened — a full menu, laid out like a modern shopping website. Rows of items with neat thumbnails and short descriptions scrolled endlessly.
SYSTEM SHOP
— Weapons, Armor, Skills, Magical Artifacts, Food, Clothes, Tools —
— Search Bar: [________] —
The layout was absurdly familiar — like online shoping site. Only… the items were wrong.
He scrolled.
Valyrian Steel Sword — 20 Gold Dragons
Dragon Egg — 600 Gold Dragons
Plate Armor, Full Set (Custom Fit with sigil) — 50 Silver Stags
Skill Orb: Swordsmanship (Intermediate) — 3 Gold Dragons
Skill Orb: Swordsmanship (Mastery) — 5 Gold Dragons
Skill Orb: Warging — 50 Gold Dragons
Skill Orb: Healing Magic (Basic) — 80 Gold Dragons...,
His mouth went dry. "You've got to be kidding me."
Everything was cheap. Insanely cheap. A Valyrian sword — priceless in this world — for twenty gold? Even a poor hedge knight could scrape that together with luck.
Dunk dug the grave, shovel biting into the damp earth. The ground was heavy with roots. He worked slow, sweating under the morning sun.
By the time the pit was chest-deep, his arms ached and his tunic clung to him with sweat.
He lifted Ser Arlan gently, wrapping him in his cloak. The man's body felt weightless. He laid the old knight down, crossed his hands over his chest, and said softly, "You were a good man, ser. I'll do better with the name you gave me."
He filled the grave, tamped the earth flat.
For a while, Dunk just stood there, breathing hard, mud on his boots, hands shaking.
He looked down at his gear. Ser Arlan's armor was old — chain patched with leather, dented plate, a kettle helm that looked like it had been dropped in a forge once too often.
The shield was cracked, and the jousting lance barely held together with rope.
No wonder Dunk in the story had been mocked at Ashford. He'd looked like a beggar trying to play knight.
He sat beside Thunder, reaching for Ser Arlan's purse. The little leather pouch was nearly empty — three silver stags. Not even enough for a night's stay at a decent inn.
"Three stags won't be enough." he muttered.
He opened the System window again. His balance blinked in the corner:
[Balance: 3 Silver Stags]
Then his eyes drifted to another tab: TRADE.
He selected the old armor. The system scanned it, then popped up a new window:
[Sell: Chainmail (Worn)] – 2 Gold Dragon
[Sell: Kettle Helm (Damaged)] – 20 Silver Stags
[Sell: Lance (Cracked)] – 30 Silver Stags
[Sell All? Confirm?]
He hesitated only a moment. These were relics of a hard life, but they'd never save him. Ser Arlan's sword — that he'd keep. The rest could go.
"Yes."
The gear shimmered, dissolving into light. The coins in his purse rattled, growing heavier. When he checked, his balance now read:
[Balance: Gold Dragons 2, 50 Silver Stags]
The possibilities were staggering. With the System Shop, he could buy nearly anything: armor, weapons, even skills. If he bought Swordsmanship (Intermediate), he'd instantly gain the ability that took knights years to learn.
But 3 gold dragons was too steep. He only had 2.
"Damn."
Still, armor in shop was cheap. He scrolled until he found:
Full Plate Armor (Standard Steel, Custom Fit) — 50 Silver Stags
Jousting Gear Set (Shield + Lance) — 10 Silver Stags
He confirmed the purchase. Two flashes of light, and the items appeared neatly folded beside him — gleaming plate, smooth and clean, with his size perfectly fitted. It looked like something a highborn knight might wear, not a hedge knight.
He ran a hand along the breastplate. The steel was cold, flawless.
He stored the old sword in inventory. He couldn't bring himself to sell it. That blade was more than metal.
After a while, Dunk leaned against the elm and watched the wind move through the leaves. The grave sat quiet at his feet.
He stayed like that until the sun climbed higher. Then, at last, he saddled Thunder after placing all things expect a wooden box and a new tourney lances on horses.
The road to Ashford Meadow stretched far and empty ahead of him. He knew the story — the tourney, the puppet show, Prince Arion Brightflame.
As Thunder trotted along the dirt road, Dunk opened the shop and stared at the list of skills. Warging. Healing. Alchemy. Swordsmanship.
He could become more than a hedge knight — more than a footnote in Egg's history.
But for that, he'd need gold.
"Spices," he muttered. "Or Valyrian steel. But I'll need a buyer."
A buyer with coin and connections. Someone who could move things quietly.
A memory flickered in his mind — a bald-headed boy with sharp eyes and a royal scowl.
Aegon Targaryen. Egg.
Dunk smiled faintly. "Guess I'll be seeing you soon, baldy."
...